


Him

by tattooeddevil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, First Meetings, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for rett_chan at comment_fic on LJ, for the prompt "Sherlock, Mary Morstan, assignment."</p><p>Spoilers for Sherlock S03!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Him

She pressed her back against the wall of the dark hallway and closed her eyes. She needed a moment, just one moment, to gather her wits and calm her racing heart. She clenched her fingers in the soft fabric of her dress tightly, trying to stop the shaking. A thin sheen of sweat covered her body, sending cold shivers down her spine when the draft from the restaurant's front door blew in.

This whole night had been one cock up after another, but the biggest one was her own damn fault. The can of mace falling from her purse was easily explained away, the reason for not wanting a cocktail equally fast excused, and her persistence to attend this particular restaurant raised a confused eyebrow, but nothing more. And then she had to go and reply to the man at the bar.

John Watson.

He had approached her when they were waiting to be seated. He had been with a friend, Mike, who had stood a few feet away, observing with an amused look on his face. Her companions had been no help, they had simply grinned and watched it play out. It was a good thing Mary didn't actually think of them as friends.

John had said something about the weather, or the waiting, or maybe the wine, she couldn't really remember, and she was so taken off guard she had actually replied. He had introduced himself as John and she had shaken his hand and given him her alias. Mary Morstan. Nurse, and out on a dinner with friends.

Of course he had to be a doctor. He couldn't be anything completely different and incompatible. No, he had to be smart, and funny, and intelligent, and charming, and way too observant for Mary's comfort.

"A gun strap? Let me guess, MI6, undercover on a mob case? This restaurant is actually run by the Chelsea mafia and you're here on an assignment to kill their leader."

He had winked when he had said it, but it had been the biggest mistake of her career. Fumbling with her napkin so it dropped to the ground, crouching down the pick it up and her dress accidentally slipping up a bit too high. It was a rookie mistake.

She had had just enough brainpower left to laugh, be it a little strained, and excuse herself to the bathroom without showing her panic. She had let herself become distracted. By his charm, his laugh, and his quick wit. It was the last thing she needed right now, not when she was this close to finally getting close to her mark, and she had to get herself under control. Fast.

"Miss? Are you alright, miss?"

A hesitant voice cut through her whirling thoughts and brought her back to the cold hallway between the kitchen and the backdoor. When she opened her eyes, the kitchen help was looking at her a little scared and she tried to smile reassuringly. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Just needed a little breather. I'll be alright."

The boy nodded and then disappeared back to the kitchen. She knew she had to go back to her dinner party soon before her behaviour would seem strange, but her heart was still racing.

John.

Her assignment.

She had been prepared to see him obviously, but she hadn't been prepared for the attraction she felt for him instantly. The completely out of character urge to - for the first time in her life - follow her heart instead of her head. The immediate rush of feelings and emotions for him. The doubt screaming at her to stand the fuck down. Let him walk. Just this once.

She couldn't.

If she did, she would never see him again. If she let him go - her target, her mark, her assignment - she would be dead in six months. **He** would make it look like an accident, killed in the line of duty, but it wouldn't be. It would be deliberate, cold, and efficient. Like **he** was. Like she was trained to be. Like she had to be right now, so she could kill John Watson.

 **He** didn't like disobedience.

She took a deeo breath, and then another, and another.

"I am so screwed."


End file.
